Wrestling, Alcohol, and Other Indulgences That Are Best in Moderation

        I have always subscribed to the idea that there is an age at which you should stop expecting people to care about your birthday, and that age is 12.  16 and 18 are exceptions, because then you can legitimately do things that you couldn't do before you reached that age (drive and buy smokeless tobacco, respectively). 

        But I've never seen anybody get worked up over 21 year old Beef--usually it is stringy and sold for a discounted price by then.  Apparently that's not how things are supposed to be when you're in college; all I got last week was an earful about how I "SHOULD NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES DRINK 21 SHOTS" (from those over age 25) or "YOU HAVE TO DO 21 SHOTS MAN!" (from those 25 and under).

        Frankly it was a little disheartening that either side thought they had an argument.  Hadn't the previous 20 years made it clear that the Beefster doesn't drink?  Did the responsibles really believe that two years of sober life in a fraternity would be thrown down the crapper like a Tennessee fan's season?  Did the peers really think that years of saying "thanks but no thanks" would disintegrate because now it was suddenly legal to say "thanks, and I'll have three more"?

       Why is being 21 such a tremendous event to so many people?  Because you can drink now?  Most people who get fired up about drinking on their 21st birthday have been doing so long before it's legal for them to do so.  Because you can go to bars now?  We went to Harry's, Jake's, Where Else, the Cactus.  None seemed good for much more than meeting drunk members of the opposite gender (except Jake's...that seemed more like a same-gender kind of place.  Weird vibe over there). Because you can purchase alcohol, instead of relying on your over-21 friends to buy it for you?  Well, unless you have made a habit of breaking the law and asking others to break it for you, that really isn't that big of a deal, is it?

        Don't get me wrong, I'm not a crazy Mormon or anything.  I'm not morally opposed to the institution of alcohol consumption in the U.S.--I mean, we tried banning alcohol, and all we got was more organized crime and "The Untouchables"  (I'd say we broke about even).  I suppose that even getting drunk seems to make a lot of sense.  It seems to be tremendously fun, and people spend a lot of time and energy in pursuit of that end.  Certainly drinking provides a social lubricant, and Lord knows that any help socially would be a big plus for the Beefster. What makes much less sense, though, is this almost primal need to drink so much that one becomes physically ill.  I have sympathy for people who contract a bad flu from a classmate; I have sympathy for those who encounter food poisoning after a visit to Hardee's; I have no sympathy whatsoever for somebody who is puking his/her guts out because they drank too much.

        When I wake up on a Saturday morning to get ready to the stadium for game day and have to step over two unconscious bodies on my way to our bathroom who, in an effort to express their thankfulness for providing a place to pass out (without consulting the resident Beef), have vomited prodigiously in our trash can and rug, well, I get just a little salty.  Geddy will wake up and say "Poor [name of passed-out vomiter on our floor].  He really feels awful."  Not buying it.  Any pain experienced, any fluids lost, any time wasted is entirely on the visitor's shoulders.  And frankly, it is hard to feel somebody who willingly does every weekend:  "The definition of idiocy is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result."

        Now you may be saying "Beef, that is all well and good that you choose not to drink.  But aren't you getting a little high-horse on here?  Doesn't standing on that soapbox get old after a while?"  Yes, it does.  So to prove that I'm more Santa Clause than Grinch, here is a merry yuletide story:

        While on winter/holiday/DEFINITELY NOT Christmas break, I am obligated to relive winters gone by.  This means a visit to the West Lafayette High School Wrestling room for a practice.  Let's just clear up any misconceptions here, before the story goes much further; this is room is in the bowels of the building, rarely touched by the janitors, windowless, with low ceilings, mats from wall to wall, the heat turned up to 80+ degrees.  The water fountains are located out the wrestling room doors, through another set of double doors that separate the athletic locker rooms from the rest of the building, and by the main stairwell up to the main floor of the high school where the classrooms and gymnasium are located.  For the purpose of this story, it is worth noting that the stairwell is often the meeting place for students or extra-curricular groups on a given day.

        If you have never been to a wrestling practice, don't go.  They are not pleasant affairs, in general.  This particular wrestling practice occurred in mid-December, the heart of wrestling season; in typical Beef fashion, my shirt was translucent with sweat, the hair greasy and matted, my forehead bright red from using it to grind on other foreheads.  I had a cold and had been blowing my nose throughout the school day.  At practice, tissues were not an option, and the next best method is known affectionately as a "snot rocket" (close one nostril by pressing the side with your finger.  Aim the other nostril at the trash can. Exhale forcefully. Repeat, switching nostrils).  A good crossface had left my nose busted, and leaking dark red blood.  About halfway through practice, after a session on the stairs and the first portion of a series of live matches, yours truly was not doing so hot.  Lunch was making its way slowly upstairs.  Coach called for water break.

        Normally this would mean a chance to catch one's breath and re-hydrate.  On flag days, however, the custom was to partner up for water breaks; one partner had to hold a rather painful position while the other ran to get a sip.  This increased team hustle and reduced any chance of somebody on the team actually managing to drink enough water to gain any weight.  Now you will have to suspend disbelief for a few moments--just follow me here:

 

     You are sitting on the stairwell, chatting with your friends, hanging out.  Beef comes tearing out of the wrestling room, pushing an unopened door open, letting it slam.  Barely jogging faster than a walk, still breathing like a maniac who overdosed on speed, sweat puddling under every step on the way to the water fountain...but first, a quick detour to the trash can.  Two snot rockets, one of which misses and lands on the wall.  He bends over, hands on knees, waiting to get a drink before--uh-oh--here comes lunch.  Face-down in the trash can, loud guttural coughing, a hairball-coming-up dry heave, standing back up, wiping the last remnants from his upper lip, putting hands on top of head, lifting translucent shirt and leaving the underbelly casually hanging, breathing just as hard, eyes half open, turning slowly to see you on the stairwell with your friends.

 

        That's what happened, only you were the girl Beef liked and your friends were the rest of the girl's basketball team, and you all were sitting in stunned silence with jaws half open.  And people wonder why there is no Ms. Beef. 

 

Ols: There are healthier ways than alcohol to get yourself to throw up.

                

 

  

the rest of the thoughts      12.18.05